


and i'm always tired, but never of you

by callunavulgari



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Movie Night, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: Damien licks his lips, running a quick hand through his hair. There's a low level panic thrumming through his veins, uncomfortable and insistent. It curls up and makes itself at home somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. God, he’s in his fucking boxers, the shirt that he’d thrown on is inside out, and if he’s not mistaken, he still has toothpaste drying at the corners of his mouth. In short, he’s a fucking disaster.No onedeserves to bethismuch of a disaster when coming face to face with their maybe-sorta-ex-something. Not even him.Or: Sam runs into Damien at the grocery store two years later. It changes everything.





	and i'm always tired, but never of you

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote half of this while listening to slow and sexy Damien songs and the other half to goopy fluffy songs. You can literally see when I made the transition. I blame Wolf 359 for Paradise Valley.
> 
> There will possibly be a follow up coda if there's enough demand for it, but this worked too well on its own for me to fit smutty threesomes into it. Sorry.

Sam runs into Damien at the grocery store on a Thursday.

There’s a basket dangling from his wrist and he’s squinting through the foggy glass doors like their frosty insides contain Narnia instead of the usual bright boxes of frozen tostitos lined alongside cheap bags of chicken nuggets. As she watches, he tugs one of the doors open and props it open with one narrow hip, squinting a little as he contemplates the freezer’s contents. After a long moment where the aisle gets colder and colder around him, he picks up a bag of the chicken nuggets, makes a face, and sets it back down again.

He turns away, letting the door thump closed behind him, then frowns and stops. He turns back and opens the door again.

At the end of the aisle, Sam hesitates, one hand clenched tightly around her basket. In it, there’s a box of tampons, a bottle of cheap red wine, and Mark’s favorite brand of whiskey. She’d been considering adding lunch meat and something healthy to the list when she’d turned down the aisle and seen him.

And now she’s frozen, the proverbial deer in headlights, staring down a man that she hasn’t thought of in two years. A man whose memory they'd left behind in another city, another life. Sam supposes that maybe if she’d wanted to avoid awkward encounters like this one, she probably should have kept better tabs on him, Mark’s wants bedamned.

Damien is wearing dark jeans, and though there are holes at the knees, they seem to be of the ‘artfully distressed’ sort rather than the too-lazy-to-patch-up variety. He’s got a decent jacket hugging his shoulders, and under that, she’s pretty sure she spies a Nirvana shirt. His shaggy hair is pulled back into a half-assed bun and there’s a day or two worth of stubble clinging to his jaw, but he looks okay. Good. A little too grunge to be on this side of the millenium, and hopelessly confused by the third bag of chicken nuggets he’s picked up, but good.

She bites her lip, and considers her options.

Two years ago, she’d be hightailing it out of this grocery store as quickly as possible, packing Mark into the nearest suitcase, and skipping town to go find backup. But for some reason, she doesn’t think that Damien’s followed them here. More likely, is that _they_ accidentally followed _him_ here.

Before she has the chance to second-guess herself, Sam takes a deep breath and strides firmly into the aisle, shopping basket swaying at her side. She comes to a stop right beside him, and for a moment, he doesn’t seem to notice her. He’s squinting at the nutrition facts on another bag of chicken nuggets. There's ramen and a pack of energy drinks in his basket.

“Those probably aren’t great for you,” she tells him, wrinkling her nose.

“Did I ask you?” Damien sing-songs, still not looking away from the nuggets. He hmphs at it, and muses, possibly to himself, “A hundred and seventy calories for five pieces. Not bad.”

“Yeah, but how much of that is actually chicken?”

Damien blinks, and tears his eyes away from the bag. He looks up at her, his face stuck in an expression that seems to be at least two-thirds disdain, the rest of it being _absolute_ incredulity, as if he’s appalled that some stranger in the grocery store is insisting on lecturing him about his taste in chicken nuggets - which, _fair_. Because Sam’s looking for it, she can pinpoint the exact moment that he places her, his eyes going ever so slightly wider. He blinks and shuffles backwards half a step, and then the surprise is gone, leaving behind a smooth mask of general douchebaggery. She remembers that mask - the slimy smirk and the too-cool-for-you-slouch.

He leans against the freezer door, and regards her coolly.

Apathetic. Smooth. Unphased.

Yeah, _right_.

“Saaaaaaam,” he drawls, eying her up and down. One sharp eyebrow quirks upwards, his gaze lingering on the Care Bear t-shirt that she’d thrown on over the tattered, holey tanktop she’d worn to bed the night before. The t-shirt is just as old and worn as the tank top is, and she immediately has to struggle against the urge to check herself for pizza stains. After all, it’s not like the shirt was exactly clean when she’d grabbed it out of the laundry pile. It was just the best looking of the bunch.

She wasn’t actually supposed to run into people that she knew at the freaking _grocery store_. And definitely not on _laundry day_. That was just rude.

The smirk ticks ever higher. Damien nods at her shirt. “Cute.”

Sam flexes her fingers, and wonders with an idle sort of curiosity if it would be worth the pain to punch him again. No. Fuck that. Two can play at this game.

“I thought so,” she says with an indifferent shrug and a chipper little smile.

“Soooo,” he says when the silence drags out between them too long. He blinks and finally seems to realize that he’s letting all the cold air out. He lets the freezer door close with a solid little thump.

“What am I doing here?” she finishes knowingly.

He nods, sharp-like. He’s shifting back and forth on his feet, the nervous little jerk. What a bad actor.

She shrugs again, drifting further down the aisle so she can grab some of those horrible little frozen potstickers that Mark likes. Half of the time they go freezer-burnt within a week, and always taste like cardboard to _her_ tastebuds, but Mark likes them. When she glances his way again, Damien is watching her put the potstickers in her basket, something knowing in his eyes, like he knows who the stupid things are for. There’s a surprising amount of hurt there, and she marvels at it quietly before he catches her looking and wipes his face clean.

Her pulse jumps in her throat. She swallows. “I, uh. We live here now.”

Damien’s eyes snap up to hers, sharp and- and, god, suddenly _angry_. His knuckles, she realizes, have gone white around his basket.

“ _Do you now_?” he grits out, a sneer curling across his lips. “Does that mean that I have to leave my home _again_?”

“No,” she cries, horrified. She winces. “I mean, I don’t think so? I’d have to talk to Mark, because that’s not exactly my decision to make, but I-” She cuts herself off, the words stuttering to a stop in her throat, because at Mark’s name, Damien goes small and _soft_. His shoulders relax and he loses some of bristly hedgehog thing that he’s had going on. The deathgrip that he’s had on his basket eases and his eyes do something weird, and warm, and fucking _tender_.

Mark. God. She’d known. Sam had _known_ that Damien was in love with Mark, even when Damien wouldn’t admit it to himself, but seeing it, like this, in person is too much. She’s always thought of Damien as some unfeeling asshole. A creature that didn’t have real, human emotions. Even that love, the feelings she’d known he harbored towards Mark, weren’t really real. He loved Mark, but how much could a sociopath _really_ love someone?

It wasn’t real. Not to her. Not the way that her feelings were real.

Looking at Damien now, there’s no way that she can pretend his feelings aren’t real.

Sam swallows, her tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth. “You shouldn’t have to leave. We’ve been here for more than a year without seeing each other. I can’t imagine-”

He’s quiet as she trails off, watching her from his position against the door. His eyes are dark, thoughtful, arms crossed across his belly. He licks his lips, and hesitates before asking, “How _is_ Mark?”

He says it quickly, like he’s not sure he really wants to know the answer. Like he’s not sure that she’ll give him an answer.

“He’s good,” she tells him, taking a moment to clear her throat. “Really good. He’s got a good job that he actually likes. The nightmares aren’t as bad. He’s, we’re good.”

Damien nods, jerky, like his cords have been cut. All the careful affectations, the smirks, the cocky attitude, have disappeared. He slumps, and god, he just looks _sad_ now. “Good,” he murmurs, not looking at her. “That’s… good to know.”

 _Do you miss him_ , she thinks, and has to bite down hard on her lip to keep the question from slipping out. God, how stupid. He’s all pathetic and _droopy_ now, of course he misses Mark. He takes a deep breath, and she watches him pull himself back together. It’s not a very convincing charade, but she lets him have it.

“ _Any_ way,” he says brightly, and pushes off of the freezer. “Things to do, puppies to terrorize, you know the deal.”

He looks at her with that same careful consideration she’d given him a moment ago, and makes his face do something that she thinks is supposed to be an amiable smile. It mostly just looks like he’s trying too hard.

He holds out his hand. “Sam.”

Reluctantly, she takes it. His hand is chilly and a little damp, but he has a surprisingly strong grip. “Damien.”

The grin that he flashes her is still just this side of wrong, too showy, not enough mean.

“It’s been real, but I gotta go.” Damien hesitates, and just when she thinks he’s gonna let it go, he leans in and brushes a careful kiss to her cheek. His lips are warm. They linger for a moment over the swell of her cheekbone, and she wonders why that is. If it’s because of Mark, or her, or the sheer unexpected delight of human contact. When he pulls back, there’s a flush of red across his cheeks, and an unsure, painfully earnest smile on his lips.

His voice is soft, _tellingly_ so when he murmurs, “Give Mark my love, okay?”

Sam swallows, her heart thundering in her chest. And, because she’s still caught off guard, she smiles back, and says, “Okay.”

 

“I saw Damien today,” she tells Mark later that night, when they’re tucked safely into bed, all the lights out except for the reading lamp on her side. There’s a book there that she’s halfway through, but she hasn’t touched it, too busy wringing her hands and watching Mark ready himself for bed.

Sam watches him in the dim light, and sees the look on his face switch from careless affection to something wary. Unsure. Mostly blank. She licks her lips. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? “He, uh, seemed all right. Dubious taste in chicken nuggets notwithstanding.”

Mark rolls around onto his back with a heavy sigh and drapes an arm across his eyes. “Did he follow us here?” he asks, his voice carefully blank.

“No,” Sam says quickly. “At least I don’t think so. He didn’t even see me at first, and he seemed surprised.” She bites her lip. “A little angry, actually. He wanted to know if we were going to make him leave.”

Mark peeks at her from under his arm, his face twisted up into an expression that she can’t read. A little guilt, maybe an echo of the same horror that she’d felt earlier. “What did you tell him?”

She shrugs, playing with the fraying edge of the blanket in her lap. She twists it in her fingers until it's pulled taut, and then lets go again. “That I didn’t think that was necessary. I mean, he’s been here longer. It wouldn’t exactly be fair to make him leave again.”

Mark chuckles mirthlessly. “True enough.”

Mark is warm where their sides are pressed together, but she can tell where the tension is in his shoulders. His face, normally so open, is closed off. She reaches out and lays her hand over his. “He, um. He asked about you.”

Mark swallows. She can see his throat bob with the effort. “Did he?”

She jerks her head in quick nod, and frowns when she realizes that Mark wouldn’t have been able to see it. “Yeah. He wanted to know if you were okay.”

Mark snorts. “I’ll just bet he did.”

Sam frowns. “Mark, I’m pretty sure he was serious.”

“What do you want me to say, Sam?” Mark asks, scrubbing a frustrated hand through his hair. He opens his eyes and pushes himself up into a sitting position, then just looks at her, frowning. His bare arms go prickly with gooseflesh. “I don’t know how you want me to feel about this.”

“Do you miss him?” she asks in a rush, the question tearing out of her. She bites down on her lower lip once it’s out, and squirms with discomfort. Mark’s still staring at her with that unreadable look on his face.“I mean, I distinctly remember you comparing him to drinking _bleach_ in the end there, but. You know.”

She hears Mark’s voice in her head, can see the conflicted look on his face as if it were yesterday, saying, _there was just something about him_.

For a long moment, Mark just looks at her. And then he sighs.

“Sometimes,” he admits, crossing his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I think so. But Sam-”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says quickly, folding her hands into her lap. She stares down at them, wondering for the millionth time tonight just what she is doing to them. Damien is _poison_. Right? “I’m not mad. I just. I think that he really misses you too.”

Mark is quiet, but she can feel him watching her.

“He, uh,” Sam starts, and squirms uncomfortably, wringing her hands in her lap. She’s nervous, shivery with anxiety, and is so, so torn between what’s right and what’s wrong here.There’s no planning for something like this, no easy way of telling Mark that she thinks his sort of ex still misses him and that she thinks it might be good for both of them if they… what? Kiss and make up? Get closure? Be friends? What’s the end goal here?

 _Give Mark my love_ , she hears, and has to shake her head to dislodge the thought. She steels herself, and knows that she’s flushing under Mark’s curious gaze. “He, um,” she says, shifting closer. “He wanted me to give you this, too.”

She leans down and kisses him, brushing her lips over the swell of his cheekbone and lingering there just how Damien did, tucking her hand alongside his jaw. It’s goes on a bit longer than the real thing did, but the way that Mark trembles and goes stock-still under her touch makes her gut go tingly with nerves. When Sam pulls back to look at him, he’s staring at her. His eyes are wide, astonished. A little shock stupid.

He reaches out to her and with careful, reverent fingers, and traces the line of her lips. The pads of his fingers catch on where they’re chapped, but she still has to close her eyes against the shock of unexpected pleasure to her system. The moment lingers, Mark’s fingers on her mouth, and then he sighs, and pulls her in for a proper kiss.

He kisses her deep, his hand cradling the back of her skull, his mouth open and wet under hers. She groans against his mouth, melting into him, and crawls halfway into his lap just to get closer. She kisses back, her mouth harder, more demanding than it usually is, and Mark shudders under her, and goes pliant at her touch.

Sam pulls away gasping a moment later. She’s sure that she’s flushed, can feel her chest heaving. Some of her hair’s come free of its braid. Mark looks no better, his eyes dark. He swallows convulsively when she bites her lip.

“Did he ask you to give me all that, too?” he asks, and she can tell from the faint undercurrent of want in his voice that he already knows what he wants her to say. He wants, desperately, like a nerve rubbed raw. Maybe he always did. Maybe he wanted even when he was telling her to forget about Damien.

“No,” she says, breathless. She tucks her hair behind her ear and peers down at him. “But he probably would have.”

Mark groans and flings his head back down against the pillows. He makes a grab for her, and tugs her down after him, pressing a kiss to the side of her head when she squeaks on impact.

“Well this just got a lot more complicated,” he tells her, and she snorts.

“When were things involving Damien _not_ complicated?”

Mark sighs. “Good point.”

Sam thinks about it for a moment. It’s not- they’ve been happy. Really, _truly_ happy. There’s a part of her that wonders if it’s even worth the risk, the heartache, the potential to fuck up what they have now by letting a person like Damien back into their lives.

He wasn’t a good person. He never _was_ a good person, not when she knew him, not when Mark knew him, not ever. He doesn’t deserve a second chance.

But, Sam thinks, glancing in Mark’s direction, something’s always been missing between them. Something that she couldn’t give Mark and he couldn’t give her. She hadn’t thought about it much, because they worked well enough, and admitting that something was wrong would just lead to her obsessing over _fixing_ what was wrong, and in her experience, that may have hurt more in the long run.

Mark cared for Damien. And maybe, just maybe, Damien was that missing piece.

She still didn’t like Damien. He was an asshole, and there would always be a part of her that hated him for taking Mark away from their fairytale first meeting. He was a loser, and a creep, and if Joan was to be believed, possibly a sociopath. But that person that she’d seen in the grocery store today had been real. His feelings had been _real_. And if Mark wants to, Sam thinks that she might be willing to give him that second chance.

“Do you want to see him again?” she asks. Her voice quavers.

Mark twists to look at her and raises his eyebrows incredulously.

“You’re really asking that? After-” he gestures between them, at her swollen lips and mussed hair, “-all that?”

She winces and goes red. “Yeah, okay. Maybe that was a stupid question, but there’s a big difference between _all that_ and actually inviting him into our lives again. I mean, he’s _Damien_.”

“I know,” Mark says. “I do. But if you’re asking me if I want to give him another chance…”

She licks her lips. “You want to.”

He hesitates and then, miserably, he nods.

“I love you,” he tells her.

She raises an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” he sighs, and grimaces. “I think that I might have felt something for him too. And not - not just because he wanted me to like him. But because I actually did. God, how fucked up does that make me?”

“We’re all sort of damaged goods, Mark. You’re allowed to have feelings, even if they don’t make much sense.”

He peers at her. “I still don’t get why you aren’t more upset about this. What do you get out of this, exactly? Besides a headache.”

“It’ll make you happy,” she answers with a shrug. She starts picking at the blanket again, uncomfortable. That’s entirely too close to the question that she’s been asking herself all night. But her answer is true enough. “I don’t have to like Damien to know that there’s a part of you that’s always sort of… needed him. That’s all I really need to get out of this.”

“And you won’t-” he thrums his fingers against the curve of her forearm, a nervous little ditty that she’s heard from him before. “You won’t be upset? If-?”

“If you want to kiss and make up?” Sam sighs and stills Mark’s fingers. She laces their fingers together and raises his knuckles to her lips, kissing them softly. “I honestly don’t know, Mark. It’s not like there’s a manual on this. Let’s just... take it slow. See if he’s changed. See if you still- you know. _Care._ ”

“Yeah,” Mark says. “Slow. Got it.”

 

Damien’s running late when someone knocks on his front door. He frowns down the hall at it, toothbrush dangling from the corner of his mouth. He removes the toothbrush and spits into the sink. He scowls out the bathroom door at the door, daring it to make a noise again. Maybe if he ignores it it’ll go away.

 _Go away_ , he thinks at the door, making a face with the effort. His power twitches and then settles back down again without doing a goddamn thing.

As if mocking him, the person knocks again.

 _Damn_.

He sets the toothbrush aside and grabs a shirt at random off the floor, shrugging it on over his shoulders as he crosses the apartment. He scowls when there’s another knock, this one louder and more insistent, as if whoever’s behind the door has gotten sick of waiting.

“Cool your tits,” he calls loudly, already reaching for the knob. “I’m fucking coming.”

He flings the door open, still scowling, and blinks.

Mark Bryant is standing on his doorstep. He’s rubbing one arm with the idle fixation of someone tuned out from the world, staring blankly at the section of ugly wallpaper just outside Damien’s door. It’s pretty hideous, yellowed and peeling, with deep grooves from where previous tenant’s have scraped the walls moving in their oversized furniture, but somehow, Damien doesn’t think that’s what’s captured Mark’s attention.

Mark’s brow is crinkled in thought, his mouth twisted like he’s been chewing on it. He’s vaguely scruffy, and is wearing clean jeans and a soft-looking t-shirt. He’s the best thing that Damien’s seen in months. Maybe years.

Damien wonders if he regrets coming here, if that’s what the thoughtful little divot between his brow means. Maybe it was an accident, maybe somehow Mark is here for someone else and he just got the door wrong. When the door swings open fully though, Mark snaps to attention, his expressive eyes darting to Damien’s, and Damien-

Damien staggers backwards a step, heart surging to his throat. Being under Mark’s gaze again feels like being on fire. Wanted, but not expected, Damien feels like he’s been jabbed with a goddamn cattle prod.

He licks his lips, running a quick hand through his hair. There's a low level panic thrumming through his veins, uncomfortable and insistent. It curls up and makes itself at home somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. God, he’s in his fucking boxers, the shirt that he’d thrown on is inside out, and if he’s not mistaken, he still has toothpaste drying at the corners of his mouth.

In short, he’s a fucking disaster.

 _No one_ deserves to be _this_ much of a disaster when coming face to face with their maybe-sorta-ex-something. Not even him.

“Mark,” he says, his throat dry.

“Damien,” Mark says, and that’s it, Damien’s shuffling off to the side and gesturing mindlessly for Mark to make himself at fucking home. He frowns a bit, trying to sort out whether that’s his own desire or if Mark’s hijacked his brain again, but when he prods at his powers, they’re quiet and docile. Same as they’ve been for years now.

Mark closes the door behind him, glancing around the apartment with idle curiosity. His gaze lingers on the television shoved into one corner, still frozen on the end credits of whatever Damien had been half-heartedly watching before he’d realized that he was late for his shift. There’s half empty containers of Chinese food on his coffee table, and pizza boxes on the floor.

Damien’s apartment is… it isn’t great. It’s tiny, in the bad part of town, and he’s pretty sure that there’s a family of mice living in the walls. But it’s cheap, and his landlords don’t seem to mind that Damien’s… _everything_ is a little bit shady. Sam had done a good job on his papers, but there was no hiding his lack of work experience much less the absence of a reliable address over the last decade. It’s made things difficult.

He clears his throat, and asks, “What are you doing here, Mark?”

Mark’s eyes drift back to him, and he pauses in the middle of Damien’s living room, as if he has to think about it. As if he’s not fucking _sure_.

“Sam said that she saw you at the grocery store last week,” Mark explains, carefully perching himself on the arm of Damien’s ratty old couch. He’d pulled the damn thing off the sidewalk, barely even giving it a brush down for bedbugs before he’d tugged it back home. Mark looks out of place on it, like a snapshot that Damien’s done a crap job of copy/pasting back into his life.

“Did she?” Damien asks, raising an eyebrow. He’d thought that precious Sam might have kept that particular encounter to herself. She _should_ have if she knew what was good for them. God knows he would have. But here’s Mark, standing here like the past two years never happened.

Mark nods, a little jerkily, and that’s strange. Mark is nervous, he realizes, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, his gaze still roving the apartment, like he’s trying to look at everything _but_ Damien. It takes a moment, but the shoe finally drops. Oh. Oh, of fucking course. “She sent you to make me leave, didn’t she.”

He’s just starting to build himself up to a righteous anger, anything but the dull blankness that is the realization that he gets to see Mark again, but only at the cost of losing his entire fucking life, _again_ , when Mark blinks at him, confused. “What? _No_.”

“Then why else-” Damien starts, his shoulders tensing. He’s frustrated, cornered, like a rat in a dirty little hole. God, it would have hurt less if Sam had just come and told him the news herself. He scoffs. She’d probably thought that Mark would have a better chance at success. Not that she’d be wrong.

“Damien,” Mark interrupts, and pushes to his feet, crossing the space between them and hesitating before he sets a careful hand on Damien’s shoulder. He looks at Damien through his messy fringe, and for the first time, Damien realizes that his hair is different. That shouldn’t surprise him, but it _does_.

“I’m not here to kick you out,” Mark says. His hand squeezes gently, and Damien feels the heat of Mark through the shirt, can feel the touch in his fucking bones. He licks his lips. God, it’s been so long since someone fucking touched him.

“Then why are you here, Mark?” Damien asks, tucking his hands under his armpits. It’s a defensive gesture, he knows, and he fucking hates it. “I did what you wanted. I left you alone. I left my fucking home for you and your stupid girlfriend, it isn’t _my_ fault that you two followed _me_ here.”

Mark shrugs. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Damien sneers, but still can’t bring himself to pull away from Mark’s touch. “And how does your girlfriend feel about that?”

“Conflicted,” Mark says with an honest little smile. “But she’s actually the one who suggested it.”

Damien scoffs. “Really?”

“Really.”

The clock above the kitchen entryway says that Damien is now late enough that there’s no possible way he’d make it on time. His manager’s probably going to be calling soon. Damien hesitates, and mutes his phone.

“Now why would she do that?” he asks, and feels Mark’s fingers brush against his throat.

“Something about wanting me to be happy. She knows that I’ve…” he stops, and visibly steels himself. “That I’ve missed you.”

Damien swallows. His heart feels- well, to be honest, it feels like Mark just suckerpunched it across the room. His voice is small when it comes out, too small, too honest, too fucking _real_. “You missed me?”

Mark’s expression twists into a strange little smile and he shrugs sheepishly. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Damien says, shocked honest.

Mark grimaces. “Well,” he says. “I did. I tried not to, but, yeah. I did.”

Damien stares at him. He wants- he wants a lot of things, and has to stuff those wants back down before they threaten to overwhelm him. His power twitches, twisting like it wants to latch onto one of them. Damien smothers it as best he can.

“I missed you too,” he says, and clenches his hand into a fist. There’s that fucking honesty again. What a _bitch_. “But that still doesn’t-” He stops, and has to clear his throat again when it threatens to crack down the middle. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mark asks, and raises an eyebrow. He smirks a little, mischief in the quirk of his lips. “Maybe I want to go get shitty barbeque.”

Damien wrinkles his nose. “What? Ugh, the barbeque is _awful_ here. We’re in the north, man. What is wrong with you?”

Mark shrugs and finally removes his hand from Damien’s shoulder. He stuffs them both into his pockets. Damien immediately misses the feel of it. “I had a craving for cornbread.”

Damien stares at him dumbly. “Mark, you _always_ want cornbread.”

Mark laughs, his eyes bright with amusement. He never used to smile like that, like he was allowed to laugh as long and loud as he wanted. Even in the early days, the few smiles and chuckles that Damien managed to coax out of him were thready, barely there. Hunted. They never managed to reach his eyes.

Now, Mark has to hide his smile behind his fist, peering at Damien with eyes that are somehow still laughing. It makes something warm bloom to life in Damien’s chest when Mark grins wryly and tells him, “Let’s just say that I haven’t had it in a while.”

“All right,” Damien says, still feeling like life is pulling one huge elaborate prank on him. “Barbeque. Let’s do it.”

He glances at his phone, sees that his manager’s called twice already. He pockets the phone and goes to find his pants and wallet. He’s probably going to get fired for this, he thinks, and spends a long minute considering the prospect of job searching all over again. His current job isn’t great, but it pays the damn rent. Damien, still a bit dumbfounded, glances out at Mark as he’s shrugging into a pair of jeans.

Mark catches him looking and smiles again. It’s a small, hopeful little thing that does a number on Damien’s chest. Blushing furiously, Damien dodges back into the safety of his bedroom before the smile can fully unfold across his face.

Whatever. Worth it.

 

Mark takes him to a chain restaurant. It’s crowded, more crowded than Damien would have expected, and there are peanut shells all over the floor. The lady sitting in the booth behind them spends the entire meal berating her child loudly over how he keeps getting his face dirty. Eating _barbeque_.

Damien wants to fucking die.

Mark makes a face when he bites into one of his ribs. He flings it back down onto the plate in disgust. “Okay, you weren’t kidding. This is awful.”

Damien snorts and raises an eyebrow in Mark’s direction.

 _“Really_?” he drawls, dragging out the vowels and widening his eyes in mock surprise.

Mark scowls at him and flicks a piece of cartilage across the table. Damien brushes it off his jacket and nibbles on one of his fries.

“Maybe the cornbread is good?” Mark says hopefully, prodding at it with his fork. Damien doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s probably going to feel like biting into sandpaper. He hides his smile with a napkin when Mark takes a delicate bite and promptly sets the rest of it aside.

“Okay, fine. So this was a bad idea.”

Damien shrugs. “I never said that this-” he gestures between them, “-was a bad idea. Just that it was stupid to expect good barbeque this far north.”

Mark wipes at his mouth with a napkin, but doesn’t quite manage to mop up all of the sauce. His gaze is searching and a little bit too earnest when he leans forward in his seat and asks, “How _have_ you been, Damien?”

Damien keeps his face steady, feeling caught out. He shifts in his seat uneasily, toying with his napkin. The next table over, their waitress is wearing the bland, practiced smile that means she really wants to cut a bitch. The woman who’s berating her for something or another is on her sixth glass of diet coke. They don’t even have their food yet. Two years ago, that would have meant less than nothing to Damien. Two years ago, he would have thought nothing of waltzing in here and taking up this booth for hours, then using his ability to walk back out again. No tip. No payment. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed the waitresses discomfort. Funny how being on the other end of things gives someone a little perspective.

He watches the waitress walk away, her back rigidly straight. “You know me, Mark,” he says without looking. “I’ve been surviving.”

Mark tilts his head, setting his elbows on the table. He leans even closer. “Has your ability come back?”

Damien gives him a look - eyebrow raised, lip curled. “I don’t know, Marky Mark. What do you think? Been getting any uncontrollable urges since you showed up at my place?”

Mark shrugs in the face of Damien’s disdain, unbothered.

“No,” he says simply. “But that doesn’t mean that you aren’t just waiting for the right moment.”

And that… that does sound like something Damien would have done, doesn’t it?

Damien scoffs, and yanks at the paper of the napkin until it rips. He doesn’t meet Mark’s gaze. “Well, you don’t have to worry, Mark. I can barely make it twitch.”

Mark presses. “But it’s there?”

Damien finally turns to look at him. He gives Mark an uncomfortable shrug. “I can feel it, I guess. A little. If I really try. What about you? Can _you_ feel it?”

Mark closes his eyes, his brows drawing together in concentration. He’s still facing Damien, but Damien thinks that he’s somewhere else right now.

“I think…” Mark starts, and something in Damien’s chest _twists_.

He gasps, jolting so hard that his knees knock into the bottom of the table. The waitress glances toward them, frowning. Damien, still wincing, waves her off with the pleasantest smile he can manage.

 _Want_ curls through him - visceral, real, _impossible_ want. It feels good, welcome, _intoxicating_ , his power like a breath of fresh air after living underground for fucking years. Damien’s mouth waters, his pupils blow wide, and he can feel himself breathing heavier. It hits him like a truck, slamming into him with no warning, but he’ll take it even like this, even if he’s not the one using it. Months, years of nothing, and something feels right again.

Mark blinks his eyes open like he’s coming out of a trance, and seems surprised to find Damien staring at him. He wants- god, Mark doesn’t _know_ what he wants. But Damien can feel it, stronger than it ever was before, as if the years have built and built on each other, the power storing up and becoming all the more potent.

It’s only natural for Damien’s wants to take a backdrop to Mark’s conflicting ones. He can feel them, and instead of shying away, strains towards them, desperate to feel. Desperate to know. Desperate to please.

Mark wants to drive three states over for better cornbread. He wants to leave, wants to get in the car and drive. Wants his camera so he can take a picture of Damien’s stupid fucking face. Wants to see his sister again. Wants to kiss Sam in the rain. Wants to take Damien back to his and Sam’s apartment and-

Damien stops, his eyes widening

Mark _wants_ Damien.

That’s what this is all about. He’s not trying to kick Damien out of the city, he just. Wants. Years later, years since Mark’s seen him, and he’s still just as hung up on Damien as Damien is on him. It’s a heady feeling, powerful.

It makes Damien want too.

He licks his lips.

“We should leave,” he says, and Mark swallows.

“Where-” Mark starts to say.

Damien laughs, a soft chuckle that he’s not sure he’s ever heard himself make before, quiet and sure. He leers at Mark, and feels the want cut a path of electricity through his entire body. He thrums with it, the sheer impossible _thrill_ of it making him positively twitchy with elation. He feels alive for the first time in years, and doesn’t know if it’s because of Mark, his power, or an intoxicating mixture of both.

“I think,” he purrs, leaning in across the table. His eyes are dark, his cheeks are flush with blood, and he’s burning with the need to get Mark underneath him. Mark’s eyes widen in surprise as he takes all this in. “That you know _exactly_ where you want me.”

 

Sam and Mark’s apartment is nicer than Damien’s. There are well-trimmed shrubs at the entrance to the building and small flowers with delicate pink blossoms planted into the soil alongside of them. Damien doesn’t know enough about flowers to have any idea what kind they are, or if they’re expensive, or whatever. He just knows that one of the best landmarks in _his_ neighborhood is the shady hot dog stand that no one actually buys hot dogs from. There are no shrubs in front of his place, just dingy, piss-covered concrete and the homeless guy who crashes on the front stoop on the weekends.

They take the elevator up to the sixth floor. The ride up is quiet, and Damien finds that he’s twitchy with nervous energy, like he’s too big for his body. He and Mark haven’t talked since they left the restaurant, the spaces between them too charged, electric with possibilities. Damien keeps drifting towards Mark. He can’t help himself. His body burns with the desire to touch. When they’d left, Mark had set his hand on Damien’s shoulder to guide him out of the building. It hasn’t really left since. It’s still not enough.

“Mark,” Damien breathes when he staggers across the threshold, the heat of Mark so close - breath hot on the back of his neck, his hands low on Damien’s hips as he urges him through the door. His voice catches on Mark’s name, raspy, like he’s forgotten how to use it. Damien thrums with need - his own, Mark’s, both, who the fuck cares when it feels this good. He’s already turning, catching half a glance of a kitchen full of shiny appliances and a dining room table with a vase full of flowers in the middle, and then Mark is on him, shoving him up against the wall just inside the front door.

Damien makes a noise, his body arching when Mark slots their hips together, getting a knee wedged between Damien’s thighs and pressing _up_. He groans, his head thunking back against the wall, eyes going heavy-lidded and Mark uses that as an excuse to catch Damien’s open mouth in a kiss.

Mark’s mouth is greedy, demanding, and so very needy, delving deep and taking all that Damien has to offer him. It’s more than Damien ever thought it would be, so much want and need, so much emotion packed into the kiss that he reels under the onslaught.

“Oh,” Damien thinks he murmurs against Mark’s lips, and can’t think past the heady rush of the basest desires. Touch, kiss, suck, rut. God, Mark wants him _everywhere_. Against this wall, and that one, and again over the dining room table. He wants to see Damien spread out in his shower, wants to soap his hair and drag a washcloth down his body, wants to suck him off until he’s begging and then fuck him hard against the wet tiles.

“Damien,” Mark breathes against his lips, and pulls back to suck a bruise into the side of Damien’s neck.

“Please,” Damien is saying, high and needy, and doesn’t know what he’s asking for, just knows that he’s desperate to have it. He slides his fingers into Mark’s hair and gives it an insistent tug, mouthing sloppily at the corner of his jaw. He spreads his thighs wider. “Please, please, _please_.”

“Yes,” Mark hisses, and hauls him in for a deeper kiss, yanking Damien into him until they’re so close that Damien can feel him everywhere. Mark presses against him, the weight of him settling between Damien’s spread thighs. He gives Damien a hot look and rocks their hips together. Damien makes another tiny noise, his head tilted back, mouth open. It’s probably an embarrassing sound. Mark gets his teeth on his throat, and Damien stops caring.

From very far away, he becomes aware of a door opening somewhere, but it’s so far down on his current list of priorities that he doesn’t even register why this could be a problem until he hears Sam’s voice. Damien swallows around a gasp, his glassy eyes refocusing. She’s standing about a foot or so away in the open doorway, a startled flush on her cheeks, her hair windswept. There’s a package in her arms. She arches an eyebrow in Mark’s direction.

Mark, who still hasn’t pulled away from Damien, whose teeth are still working another mark into the fragile skin at the join of his shoulder and throat. Damien swallows hard and has to close his eyes and fight down a whimper when Mark, still distracted, grinds their hips together.

“Slow, huh, Mark?” Sam asks, setting the package and her keys down on the table next to her.

Mark winces at her voice and pulls back ever so slightly, just enough to free up his mouth, not enough to drag them away from the heat of each other’s bodies. He doesn’t seem surprised enough. Doesn’t even seem to care that his girlfriend just caught them necking in her apartment. He just grins at her, helpless and a little flushed, his lips red and wet, and says, “Sorry, Sam.”

She rolls her eyes and settles back against the wall, crossing her arms across her chest. “I guess that answers one question at least.”

Damien, who has at this point been incredibly, forgivingly silent, asks, in a voice like its been scraped over sandpaper, “What question?”

Sam’s eyes dart to him, tracking down their bodies for the first time. She flushes and is quick to return her gaze to his face, but even then, her eyes linger on his bitten red lips, and then again on the hickey that Mark had sucked into his neck.

She licks her lips and says, dryly, “Whether or not Mark still had feelings for you.”

Mark’s hands go tight around Damien’s waist, and Damien shudders at the faint undercurrent of want that surges over him, a blip of an image, a desire, that appears so suddenly that he staggers under the sheer weight of it. He bites his lip raw, and sees himself sliding a hand into Sam’s heavy curtain of hair and tugging her close. He wants it so much that for a moment, he can taste the way her lips would taste, can smell how her hair would smell up close. He almost, _almost_ goes to her.

Then he rocks back on his heels and turns to look at Mark with wide eyes.

“Mark,” he breathes, and can’t tell whether his tone has landed on disbelieving or turned on. “What the fuck.”

Mark, at least, has the grace to look sheepish.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. The want is still there though, simmering in the background. Damien closes his eyes and thinks of his fingers curling in Sam’s hair, of her lips wrapping around the head of his dick. He wants it.

Sam’s looking between them, suspicion in her gaze. Damien shifts uncomfortably and winces when the movement provides the sweetest amount of friction. His lashes flutter closed. He hears Mark groan, and has to close his eyes for a long moment before he can manage to get himself under control.

Across the room, Sam clears her throat.

“I suppose you two could… finish, if you want,” she says, with the air of someone who doesn’t know whether or not they really want what they’re saying.

Mark’s want echoes through him again, and Damien licks his lips, an idea of himself and Sam tangled together on a bed somewhere flashing to the forefront of his mind, her body flush against his, one thigh hooked around his hip. He gets lost in the desire for a moment, and imagines her head tossed back against a pillow, her hands in his hair shoving Damien down her body until-

Damien shoves a pointy elbow into Mark’s gut. “Cut it _out_ ,” he hisses.

“I’m sorry,” Mark cries, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge the thought. It doesn’t really work, at least on Damien’s end. “It’s really hard not to want things right now.”

Mark swallows and casts a helpless look Sam’s way. She’s still watching them, curiously. That look turns to one of mild interest when Mark turns his attention on her, and she blinks, her eyes widening in first surprise, then horror. She lets out a quiet noise of disgust and glares at Damien.

“Gross, Damien,” she hisses. “Knock it off.”

Damien muffles a chuckle against the side of Mark’s throat. Murmurs, “Trust me, sweetheart. That ain’t me.”

There’s a moment of silence and then-

“Mark?” Damien hears her ask, and turns his head to watch.

She looks unsure now, hesitating, her arms dropping from across her chest to dangle at her sides. She wants to take a step towards them, but Mark still has Damien backed up against the wall, is still caging him in with his body. Damien doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know that it’s making her uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says, a frantic little undercurrent to his voice. Damien can feel him reel the power in, tucking it close and quiet. Damien licks his lips and reaches - can just brush the edge of it before it retracts even further. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t want-”

“Didn’t want Sam and I here getting a little more _familiar?_ ” Damien drawls, tipping his head back against the wall. He watches them both with hooded eyes, refusing to back down even when Mark turns a warning look on him. He hums in the back of his throat, and rocks his hips a little, smiling when Mark’s throat bobs. “Pretty sure that’s exactly what you wanted, Mark. You’re doing a good job of reeling it in, though. Well done, I never quite got the hang of that particular trick.”

Mark scoffs. “You mean you never tried.”

Damien narrows his eyes. “I _tried_.”

The silence is tense, narrow. Damien is still hard in his pants. God dammit.

“I tried,” he says again, wilting a little. He shoots Mark a narrow-eyed glance of distrust. Or maybe hurt. “Or did you _conveniently_ forget the part where I made my parents forget about me?”

Sam makes a strange little hurt noise on her side of the room. Damien wonders if she’d known. He wonders if he cares.

Mark sighs and finally, finally, takes a reluctant step away from him. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t forget, I just-”

“You just thought that I didn’t care,” he bites out, a mean smirk on his lips. “Trust me, Mark. I might have gotten over my childhood traumas by now, but I _definitely_ gave a shit back then.”

Damien turns to look at Sam, still simmering with impotent rage. It’s not fucking fair. He was so close- so fucking close, and then. He swallows down all the biting comments he wants to make, and forces himself to smile at her.

“Sam,” he says, nodding in her direction. “It’s been a real _slice_ , but I think I’ve worn out my welcome.”

He turns to look back at Mark, whose hands are still partially outstretched, like they’ve forgotten that they aren’t supposed to be holding Damien anymore. He has a strange expression on his face - remorseful, wanting, and strangely, relief. Meanwhile, Damien just wants to close the distance between them again, wants to tuck himself right back into Mark’s hold, Sam be-damned. He feels a twitch, the barest little twitch of power, stretching out between them and it just- snaps.

He swallows and ducks his head. “I’ll show myself out.”

 

He and Sam are quiet for a long time after Damien leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. Mark can still feel an echo of Damien’s warmth against the palm of his hands, can still feel the heady rush of getting his mouth on him, _finally_ , after all these years.

Sam shifts uncomfortably against the wall. “Mark?”

“Sorry, Sam,” he breathes, leaning his head back against the wall with a weary sigh. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep, fortifying breath. He still smells like Damien.

He can feel her draw closer, and then, a tentative touch brushes against his arm.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she murmurs. He glances up at her, unsurprised to find her chewing on her bottom lip. There’s still a flush of color in her cheeks, but Mark can’t sort out if it’s because of him and Damien or if it’s just that she’s embarrassed. “I knew-” she starts to say, and shakes her head. She looks at him. “ _We_ knew that this was a possibility.”

He sighs, and reaches for her. He gets a hand hooked around her waist and tugs her close. “What would I do without you?”

She snorts. “Probably get laid.”

He frowns, pulling back to look at her, but she just goes redder, and hides her face against his chest. “I didn’t mean- I mean, I know that we-” she makes a little noise of distress and peeks up at him. “I know our sex life is fine. It’s fine, it is. I just mean that if it weren’t for me you and Damien-”

She trails off, and buries her face against his chest again.

Mark winces. “And how exactly do you feel about that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Okay, I think? A little jealous. _Weirdly_ turned on.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Mark sighs, tightening his arms around her. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales. She smells like soap and good, clean sweat. He wants to kiss her, so he does, keeping it short and sweet. He wonders if she can smell Damien on him.

“So I’m guessing he has his power back?”

Mark shakes his head. “Not quite. It’s _there_. Enough that I was able to hook it, but not quite enough for him to get a hold of. It’s weird, almost like there’s a disconnect between him and his powers.”

Sam frowns, the space between her eyebrows puckering adorably. He kisses her there, and laughs when she swats at him. “You know,” she muses, “your sister would probably theorize that it’s psychosomatic.”

“What, like he’s doing it to himself?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Subconsciously, anyway. I mean, I’m sure he associates losing you with losing his powers. Maybe there’s a part of his brain that internalized that. That thought he was better off without them.”

Mark snorts, and then hides his face in her hair when she turns to look at him. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. I just can’t imagine Damien ever willingly giving up his powers.”

“Like I said, I don’t think he’d be doing it on purpose, exactly.” Sam shakes her head, giving him an apologetic smile. “Ugh, sorry, your sister is the therapist, not me. I shouldn’t be trying to figure him out. I mean, it’s probably a good thing that he’s got this weird block on his powers.”

Mark thinks about it. “It does make sense though. I don’t see him taking it very well if someone tried to tell him.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, _no_.”

She shifts against him and they let the silence swallow them whole for a long minute, just swaying there. A cloud must have passed across the sun, because the apartment darkens abruptly, casting everything in shades of pale blue. It’s too quiet, Mark thinks, and wishes that Damien hadn’t left. They could have maybe had dinner. Against his chest, Sam sighs.

“How about we take a walk before dinner?” she suggests, glancing up at him. “Take some pictures? Twirl me around that park a couple blocks away? Could be fun.”

“Mmm,” he hums, and kisses the top of her head. He’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt a little. “You have the best ideas.”

They take the long way across town, lingering in the patches of sunlight dotting the sidewalk. It’s solidly late afternoon now, and the main streets will be absolutely lined with idling, honking cars. The back way is nicer, more scenic. Sam stops to pet every dog they pass, and he loves her for it, horribly.

The park itself is a typical city park, a small patch of green in an otherwise dreary cityscape, but it has spindly trees that are fragrant with new blooms and a little pond in the center. There are swings, which are usually fought over by the countless little kids and their parents who swarm the park during the day, but it’s late enough in the afternoon that they’re free. A group of college kids by the pond take turns throwing a frisbee to a pair of excitable golden retrievers.

Sam sinks down onto a swing and gazes out at the spectacle, her eyes tracking the frisbee and the dogs. She pushes herself around gently, her feet dragging halfheartedly against the ground. Mark gives her a little push, smiling when she turns a delighted smile on him. He pushes until she’s got a decent swing going, and then he takes the spot next to her.

They don’t speak much, mostly watching the kids and their dog. At some point, a mom with a six year old and some kind of border-collie joins them. The dogs romp happily together, their tongues lolling in happy doggy grins.

When they’re tired of swinging, they slow, their legs halfheartedly pumping, feet mostly pushing around wood chips. Sam sneaks a glance at him. “When are you going to see him again?”

Mark shrugs. “Don’t know. He was upset.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. She kicks bits of wood chips in his direction. “He’s Damien. I’m honestly surprised that with your history you two didn’t get into it before I even got there. _Though_ ,” she hums thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin. “I guess you _were_ pretty distracted.”

Mark makes a figure eight in the chips with his toes then kicks it apart again. “Yeah,” he admits. “I just- god. I mean, seeing him again was hard enough but his power, Sam. I forgot how good it feels.”

“I thought you didn’t like how it felt?”

“It’s difficult,” he admits, and tries to put his thoughts in order. Biting his lip, he drums a nervous beat against the chains. “Like, it was gross before, right? But it still felt _powerful_. It was still a _rush_. Now it just. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the time or the distance, or because the situation was different, but it feels cleaner?”

Sam makes a face. “Less like bleach?”

Mark nods. “Less like bleach.”

“But you still want to see him again, right?”

Mark blows out an aggravated sigh and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I definitely want to see him again. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea for us to be alone together until I’m sure. About him.”

Sam shrugs, and starts to swing again. Her hair is a bright flag of color behind her as she whisks by. “So don’t be alone the next time you see him. Invite him to movie night.”

Mark stares at her. She avoids his gaze.

“You,” he says flatly, “want to invite Damien to movie night.”

“Sure,” she says. “Why not.”

“But you _hate_ him.”

Sam sends him a withering look over her shoulder, and on her next backswing, digs her feet into the wood chips to stop herself. She gets to her feet and faces him. “I don’t hate him, Mark. I just don’t like him very much. But you like him, and if we’re going to do this, I need to at least see if I can like him too. I’m not _that_ selfless.”

Mark looks at her standing there, feet planted, fire in her eyes, and loves her immensely. He pushes to his feet and hugs her, squeezing tight. Then, because he’s an asshole, he picks her up and spins her around until she shrieks.

When he sets her back on her feet, he sighs and buries his face in her hair. “If this goes pear-shaped, I’m blaming you.”

She grumbles, then tightens her arms around him. “If this goes pear-shaped, we can both blame Damien.”

Mark smiles. “Deal.”

 

At half past four the next day, Sam tracks down Damien’s number, and gives it to Mark. Then she gives him a look, and leaves him alone with his phone.

He stares at the number for a long time, and then finally taps out, _movie night, my place_?

 _when_? Damien texts back an hour later.

Mark fights down a smile. _friday, 8ish? fair warning, sam will be there._

Damien texts back a cheerfully smiling poop emoji, but he follows it up with a thumbs up, so Mark thinks that might be a yes.

On Friday, he queues up a movie and buys popcorn. They order pizza.

When the doorbell rings, Sam’s the one to get it.

Damien looks like he hasn’t slept, but then, they probably don’t look much better. He and Sam eyeball each other up and down for a minute, and as Mark watches, Sam crosses her arms over her chest and leans closer to tell him something. Mark’s too far away to hear what she says to him, but Damien just looks at her for a moment before smirking politely. He nods, and she steps out of the way.

They flop onto the couch on either side of him, Damien immediately leaning forward to snatch a piece of pizza from its place on the coffee table. He takes a huge bite, then leaves it dangling over his lap. A moment later, he has to make a catch for a long string of cheese slipping free of the crust, sauce following after it like tomato-y napalm.

“So,” Damien asks, wincing as he crams the scalding hot cheese into his mouth. He licks his palm clean afterwards. “What are we watching?”

“The Philadelphia Story,” Mark tells him proudly, and Sam groans on his other side.

“Really?” she asks, her eyes a little wild. “ _Again_? Joan isn’t even here to prove wrong this time!”

“Hey,” Mark exclaims. “I don’t need my sister here to want to watch it, it’s a good movie!”

She groans again, louder, and shoves a frustrated hand through her hair. Damien, Mark notices, is watching them with a curious expression, slowly chewing on the end of his pizza. When he notices Mark looking, he smirks, and winks. The back of Mark’s neck goes red.

“It is a good movie,” Sam is assuring him. “I’ve just seen it a _million_ times. But fine, fine, just start it. But I get to pick the next one.” She waves a flippant hand in Damien’s direction. “Damien can get third choice.”

Damien widens his eyes in mock surprise. He reaches for a second piece of pizza. “ _Three movies_. Damn, you guys are ambitious.”

Sam sniffs and wrestles the popcorn back into her lap. She takes a mutinous little bite and scoffs. “Please,” she says. “We basically never sleep. Three movies isn’t ambitious, it’s child’s play.”

Damien narrows his eyes. “That a challenge?”

Sam’s eyes glint. “Maybe. Think you’re up to it?”

“ _Four_ movies, and the last one has to be something by Stephen King.”

Sam hisses. “Demon.”

Damien bats his lashes and corrects, “D _ami_ en.”

While they’re busy arguing, Mark hits play. The title sequence starts up, and Mark settles in, snatching a piece of pizza before relaxing into the couch. After a minute, they go quiet beside him, distracted by the movie.

Sam wastes no time curling up to him, and settles with her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Damien holds himself apart for the first movie, carefully folding his body up against the arm of the couch. He tucks his feet up under him, and watches, his eyes darting every once in awhile to Mark.

When Sam gets up to put in her choice, Damien slumps closer, his body slipping along the cushions as the lack of Sam’s weight unsettles them. Like this, Damien is pressed up against his side, the long warm line of him tucked close. Mark thinks that it’s an accident, but when he moves to glance down at him, Damien’s cheeks are flushed and he’s carefully not looking at Mark.

Mark swallows. Halfway through the movie, he tucks an arm around Damien’s shoulder.

They make it through three and a half movies, but make the mistake of choosing IT as their fourth. Mark lasts through about a third of it before he’s out.

The next morning, he wakes up sandwiched between them. They’re warm, too warm really, and he’s caught in a tangle of limbs, Sam’s thigh tucked securely around his hip, her chin nestled onto his chest. Mark himself is halfway onto Damien’s lap, breathing wetly into the crook of his neck. Damien looks different in sleep now than he did all those years ago, more at peace.

It’s hot and a little sweaty, and Mark’s pretty sure the moment they wake up someone’s going to be yelling at someone, but until then, he drifts.

When they wake up, he thinks dreamily, he’ll take them out to breakfast. Everybody likes waffles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those interested, my [main blog](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/) and my [writing blog](http://callunawrites.tumblr.com/)!


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